She longed as with thirst for Michael to come, and as her solitude
became more and more intolerable, a hundred hideous fancies obsessed
her. What if some accident had happened to Michael, or what, if in this
tremendous breaking of ties that the war entailed, he felt that he could
not see her? She knew that was an impossibility; but the whole world had
become impossible. And there was no escape. Somehow she had to adjust
herself to the unthinkable; somehow her relations both with Hermann and
Michael had to remain absolutely unshaken. Even that was not enough:
they had to be strengthened, made impregnable.
Then came a knock on the side door of the studio that led into the
street: Michael often came that way without passing through the house,
and with a sense of relief she ran to it and unlocked it. And even as
he stepped in, before any word of greeting had been exchanged, she flung
herself on him, with fingers eager for the touch of his solidity. . . .
"Oh, my dear," she said. "I have longed for you, just longed for you.
I never wanted you so much. I have been sitting in the dark
desolate--desolate. And oh! my darling, what a beast I am to think of
nothing but myself. I am ashamed.
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